


5731052

by StorytellerSecrets



Category: Original Work
Genre: Apocalypse, Bad Writing, Human Experimentation, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Tagging, More importantly: why am I posting this?, Unethical Experimentation, War, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 22:24:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19282402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StorytellerSecrets/pseuds/StorytellerSecrets
Summary: 5731052 knew exactly six Humans.





	5731052

**Author's Note:**

> Don't @ me I wrote this like a year ago on a plane.

5731052 knew exactly six Humans. Half of them were officers, and nearly all of them held an affinity for rules.

The first was tall, a blonde-haired man with blue eyes and three moles on his face. This Officer cried out of one eye and talked to himself in broken whispers. He was reluctant to correct 5731052, and he was ever so quiet. For all that the man stuttered, he could sing like no one else (not that 5731052 had any knowledge in the department of music. He was, after all, a subject). Sometimes, when no one was listening, he’d talk to 5731052, even though he knew it was a violation against every regulation and rule.

Another Officer was a woman with hair the shade of burning roses and eyes that matched the navy of her uniform. Her face was a reversed galaxy, constellations of darker dots standing in a stark contrast against her porcelain skin. She was small in comparison to the others, but she towered above 5731052. She was quick to correct any misbehavior but wasn’t needlessly cruel, and that luxury went far from being unacknowledged. 5731052 tried hard to keep to the rules around Officers like her, as they usually kept to themselves unless required.

The last officer was—simply put—mean. He was tall, built thickly with heaping slabs of muscle and a neck thicker than the wrought-iron doors that slammed shut every time the Doctor took 5731052 into the Lab for the tests. He had a misshapen head and no hair to boot, and whenever he spoke it sounded like there was gravel crunching in his throat. He made it clear that he resented 5731052, and emphasized and orchestrated corrections that left 5731052 unmoving and voiceless for days.

On those days, the first Officer speaks softer, telling stories of fictional worlds where people were content and the whole world was peaceful. 5731052 likes to imagine that since there is no war they wouldn’t need to run the tests anymore, so there wouldn’t be a Lab and the Room would be empty and there wouldn’t need to be so many orders. 5731052 never dares to exist in these fantasy worlds, but sometimes pretending that you don’t exist is better.

Even the female Officer is kinder on Correction Days. She still barks orders and won’t hesitate to correct 5731052 if the rules are broken, but the corrections are less harsh and easier to recover from. Sometimes, when she thinks no one sees, she peeks a glance at 5731052 and she shudders. 5731052 doesn’t ask why, but he isn’t supposed to speak anyways.

 

* * *

  
Sometimes, they pump his blood full of drugs that make him see monsters and have endless fever-dreams that persist through his consciousness. Needles prick at scarred skin on wrists, piercing the vein and leaving deep-set bruises.

Other times, they’ll lock him in boxes or hold him underwater and take notes as they search for answers. He doesn’t know what they’re looking for, but he wishes they’d find it already.

The tests are supposed to end the same way. He’s supposed to do what he’s told to, and eventually they’ll lock him back into the cell. The tests, as random as they seem, follow a routine.

He made too many mistakes as a Subject. The rules were simple, like not talking and listening and never running away, but he still couldn’t follow them.

They’d dragged him into the Correction Room with fading scars and a splattering of bruises. A week later they dragged him out, every bone in both of his hands broken and body paralyzed as they threw him into his cell. He hated the Doctor, but he went to sleep wishing he’d held that scalpel to his own wrists rather than to hers.


End file.
